


the heroes

by pluviales



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Gen, Hugo-esque (hopefully), M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluviales/pseuds/pluviales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/><em>"...all were killed"</em><br/> </p>
  <div class="center">
    <p>A canon-compliant, canon era filling-in of the blanks.</p>
    <div class="center">
      <p>
        <br/>
        <span class="small">"As he proclaimed this final declamation louder than any he had roared before it, one arm raised in the air, a first musket-shot pierced him in the shoulder; a second tore through his heart immediately after, killing him instantly: his chest folding over, his upper body was flung dramatically over the balcony, mirroring the sunken head of the man at the window opposite him."</span>
        <br/>
      </p>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	the heroes

**  
LES HÉROS**

                Feuilly had his eyes closed when the report sounded, louder than it had crashed at any point before – he’d been taking a moment to reflect, standing remarkably still, with his eyebrows drawn together in deep abstraction, on the death of this octogenarian whose mottled and holed corpse he had just helped to carry into the safety of the Corinth; an almighty man, the regicide whom Enjolras had commanded them as one to defend as they would their living father. Feuilly did not have a living father, but he supposed it would have been too illustrious an honour to have this man as his own. He was standing with his eyes shut momentarily, therefore, out of reverence to the fallen hero: perhaps it was his father. Feuilly wouldn’t ever know, after all, and had in his days of childhood dreamt that enough men were the ones who conceived him, that the white-haired fellow in the park only bowed his head away from the ragged orphan for he was his true father, and was too ashamed to meet his eyes. It was an infantile game to play now, when he was grown up and old enough to be a parent himself, but beneath the turbulent skies which watch over insurrection even the greatest of men can permit themselves a moment to grow young again – after all, as Feuilly knew, it is unlikely that they would grow much older.  
                His lapse in activity, the brief sojourn to muse after tragedy, must have clearly been disapproved of by the powers above, as the shout of Gavroche and immediate subsequent swell of musket-fire wrenched the workman sharply from his contemplation. Feuilly snapped his eyes open, reacting at once and flanking the backs of Courfeyrac and Enjolras as their group rushed towards the barricade: the urchin’s warning had been hollered in the nick of time, for the river-rapids of uniformed Municipal Guards which strained against the barricade burst over it mere seconds after they emerged. Advancing at a run to join the defenders, Feuilly spotted a flash of crimson; Bahorel’s waistcoat. He recalled the man first donning it earlier, choosing the bold garment moments before they were due to leave for the funeral of General Lamarque. His dark eyes glittering whilst he slid into the red material, Bahorel had joked to him of his supposed aspirations of becoming a bullfighter—“But when I approached the lead caballero to ask about a position for me – wearing my new waistcoat, bought specially for the job – he took one look and fled, too, and I marvelled to myself, why, there goes a bull running on two legs!”  
                Feuilly had never been conclusively certain if the man was speaking earnestly or in jest throughout the duration of their relationship; he didn’t mind, though, for Bahorel’s exaggerations were amusing regardless of their sincerity. Even now, as he dashed towards the first guard to cross into the stronghold with his marked skin flushed and a gun outstretched, he wore a giddy grin. Feuilly saw him mouth something, beaming – ‘Long live the people!’ it appeared.  
                His eyes had darted away, focusing on another approaching Municipal; he heard the shot which Bahorel had fired and assumed the job done, opting to run towards this new adversary and leave Bahorel to it, but tore his head back around as the slice of the bayonet-thrust pierced the air.  
                He staggered to a stop, back turned to the barricade, mouth opening and closing, forming soundless words. He was entirely vulnerable, and reminded of this as Jehan Prouvaire was forced to sweep behind him and fire at his target for him—but the architect paid no attention to the danger he was in. His eyes were fixed in horror at the body splayed face-down upon the ground, its unmoving palms touching the earth left exposed by the uprooted paving stones as though bent over in prayer. On its back, around the gaping hole gored in the upper-left portion by the bayonet, the corpse’s crimson waistcoat was darkening; no longer a shade to startle bulls, the material was now tainted almost black. Feuilly looked at it – ‘It’, indeed, for he did not believe that this dead body could be the same one which had swung him around on the Pont Neuf, threatening to throw him into the Seine whilst he laughed until his chest hurt.  
                A third Municipal Guard inadvertently kicked over the body as he clambered over the barricade, and Bahorel’s lifeless face was shown to the heavens. Feuilly lifted his musket-arm and shot him in the shoulder mere inches above the heart, felling him before his boots had even touched stone. He was stoic for a few moments, regarding Bahorel’s bloodied lips – they were still curved upwards in that dizzy, crushing grin – and then he crumpled. He discharged shots one after one, aiming with precision and making a strike, only pausing when, at last, he needed to recharge his carbine. He had barely raised it again before, suddenly; the stronghold came to a standstill: Marius Pontmercy had arrived at some point, and was now standing at the top of the barricade, a powder-keg clutched in one arm and flaming torch in the other. Feuilly heard his cries only distantly, seeing the amber light he carried cause the air around itself to ripple, but Marius waved it sluggishly, and his yelled words were not aligned in time to the movement of his lips; Feuilly was disoriented, almost falling backwards as he tried to gather himself, and his eyes met with the glassy stare of Bahorel as Marius stepped down and the others swarmed at his sides, obscuring Bahorel so that Feuilly could only see him between the sleeves of their trousers. Vaguely aware of a hand patting his back in passing celebration, he hobbled towards the body, for at an indiscernible point during the attack he had taken a bullet in the calf.  
                He reached Bahorel, whose eyes were no longer on him, but fixed upon the swallows which swooped like thread pulled by needle through the sky, and he kneeled. He wept. Already, bodies were being moved into the Mondétour alleyway: an insurgent with whom he had chatted briefly during construction of the barricade had approached him to ask if he needed assistance in lifting Bahorel, but, upon seeing the red-rimmed eyes and look of anguish which reflected from them, had fallen back. Feuilly swore under his breath, cursing the wind outwardly yet affronting himself inwardly; why had he turned away? However momentarily it had been, his lapse had cost him Bahorel. Yet why had the idiot plunged forwards so readily, volunteering himself as the first to attack? But Feuilly could not scorn that; after all, how else would Bahorel have deigned to give his life, if not fighting? It would have been most certainly dishonour to his fiery heart, Feuilly supposed, if he had been claimed in any other way.  
                 Closing his eyes again, Feuilly laid a hand on Bahorel’s chest, staining it instantly with blood which still trickled from the gaping wound, and reflected. Then he dropped his arm to his side, hesitating momentarily before sliding his hands beneath Bahorel’s body and lifting him up, keeping a gentle hold of him as he moved slowly to his feet.

                Across the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Combeferre wiped his hands upon his trousers, removing from his moist palms the dust which had resulted from the volleys that threatened the barricade prior to Marius’ rescue of it; having gathered around him to weigh in on the praise which was being heaped upon the courageous young lawyer, Combeferre turned to Enjolras as Marius wobbled away unsteadily.  
                “Look,” he remarked quietly, though it was doubtless that Marius – whose ears were still ringing – would not have heard him even if he’d bellowed. “He’s trembling.”  
                Beside him, Enjolras nodded. “He’s earned the right to.”  
                Smiling slightly at his leader’s answer, Combeferre turned to survey the aftermath of the defenders’ first brush with the adversary: he scanned the bodies on the floor, attempting to take numbers and names mentally, counting the corpses and spotting the wounded. As he did so, among those milling about rather confoundedly he noticed Feuilly – his initial pleasure at seeing his friend mainly unhurt evaporated with more speed than the eye blinks as he realised that the architect was carrying a body. Combeferre discerned its identity at once, and bowed his head as Feuilly vanished into one of the Rue Mondétour’s side streets.  
                “Enjolras,” he said, barely lifting his head to speak, “I think a roll should be called, once we have attended to the wounded.” Having sensed Enjolras’ second small nod, Combeferre moved away, floating almost spectrally towards a felled man like an angel of restoration. Kneeling beside him, he kept the man’s consciousness alert by asking him questions – learning he was a butcher, that he owned his shop only a quarter-mile away, that the best way to season a turkey was not to bombard it with spice, but to blend the herbs finely, so as not to divest the bird of its natural essences – whilst simultaneously beckoning for another man standing nearby to assist him in lifting the wounded comrade into the Corinth and onto a mattress within. Once Combeferre was assured of his healing, he ventured back into the street and recovered another man, continuing this pattern for some fifteen minutes before the job was finished.  
                It was then that the roll was called. All injured men inside the tavern and all bodies in the Mondétour alley were taken note of before Courfeyrac emerged into the street, standing upon one of the paving stones which led up the barricade so as to be perceived more clearly. The rest of the men gathered around him, and, clearing his throat, he began to read the remaining names from a lengthy list. One by one, each call was answered with an acknowledgement – some were uttered simply, a heavy ‘Here’; other defenders took it upon themselves to elaborate, shouting, ‘Here – and bloody well hungry, too!’  
                Combeferre stood patiently at the rear of the crowd, hovering by the door to the tavern so as to be easily accessible to those inside. From this post he could scan the backs of the others, recognising some before their names had even been called. Although he hoped for the presence of all whom he knew, there was one face which he was most keen to find; upon his own check, however, it appeared to be missing. Combeferre remained unruffled, resigning to waiting good-naturedly for the name to be called: after a Perigneau hollered his reply to the roll, Courfeyrac moved to the next volunteer on his list, and Combeferre craned his neck.  
                “Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac called, eyes sweeping the crowd as he had done for the rest thus far. He was met with silence. “Jean Prouvaire,” he repeated, louder. Examining the assembly himself, Combeferre reminded himself that the young man was on occasion quieter of inflection than the others, supposing that he had not been heard the first time his name was called.  
                But the prolonged silence proved him wrong. Courfeyrac called a third time to no avail, and turned his searching eyes to meet Combeferre. A chill pierced the medical student’s heart, and he paced inside the Corinth.  
                “Jehan!” he shouted whilst inspecting the face of each man there, looking for the red hair, cut haphazardly by the poet himself and braided back clumsily—“Jehan!”  
                He was not among the wounded. He had not, moreover, been counted among the dead. Combeferre pressed his thumb and forefinger to his forehead as though attempting to push away the conclusion which had entered his mind; Jehan was missing. From his vantage point at the barricade, Courfeyrac must have registered Combeferre’s ashen expression and understood – he hesitated for a moment, and then moved on to the next name. Once roll was finished, Combeferre found Enjolras at his side within the Corinth, his forehead creased in concern.  
                “They’ve got Jehan,” Combeferre spat. “They have our friend, and we have their spy –” he jerked a thumb across the tavern, gesturing to the calm inspector tied to the post “—Are you really so set on his death?”  
                “Yes,” Enjolras’ answer came instantly, shooting a malicious glare at Javert, though he was not finished: “But less than I am set on the life of Jean Prouvaire.” He turned his head back to Combeferre at this, reinforcing to his guide through his expression that he sensed the horror pulsing through his blood, the dismay swirling in his mind, and that he would set his best effort to rectifying the mistake which had been allowing one of their men to be seized.  
                Combeferre understood, and, with the knowledge of his leader’s support, spoke drily and resolutely: “Well then, I'll tie a handkerchief to my stick and go and bargain with them. Their man, in exchange for – ours.” At this, he moved away, making to exit the tavern – he had not taken two steps before Enjolras brought him to a halt, touching his hand.  
                “Wait.”  
                Combeferre spun back to face him, looking at the chief in confusion, but Enjolras’ eyes were fixed upon the barricade: “Listen,” he said, and Combeferre heard. From the far end of the street, the rattle of weaponry was to be heard; the ill-omened jostling of musket-barrels against one another, fighting for a place in the firing-squad line. Combeferre released a strangled cry and started, springing towards the street, but Enjolras held him back in time to hear a brave voice – that surely of Alexander, or Aeneas – scream:  
                “Long live France! Long live the future!”  
                The barricade was silent; all men’s breath caught in their throats at the battle cry which sounded from the opposing side, falling from the graceful lips of Jean Prouvaire as a phoenix, erupting into blistering flame before—  
                The concurrent bursts of musket-fire rang out across the Rue de la Chanvrerie, followed by the sound of a body crumpling to the floor; it was both Jehan and Combeferre who did so simultaneously, the latter being dived after by Enjolras, who swooped to catch a hold of him beneath his armpits, steadying him.  
                “They’ve shot him!” he cried, blinded by the tears which had leapt into his eyes. For once, all thought, all reasoning vanished from his mind. He felt as though his skull had been emptied, that if one was to dash it upon the floor of the Corinth, nothing but dust would spill out, and confused fragments of poetry; the tangled memories of Jehan reciting it to him – from a window-ledge, immersed in a lake, yelled across the mountains, whispered in his ear… Combeferre’s chest heaved, and he let out a swollen sob. He was barely aware of Courfeyrac rushing to crouch at his side, replacing Enjolras, whose arms had left him to point murderously at Javert.  
                “Your friends have killed you as well,” he snapped, sealing the spy’s death with acid on his tongue. From his stance beside Combeferre, still rubbing a hand supportively across his back, Courfeyrac nodded; Combeferre heard Enjolras’ promise, too, but to him the words were empty. What did it matter if the spy died, now that Jehan was gone? Unlike Enjolras he had no care for vengeance, only loss. He shook his head, burying it in Courfeyrac’s side, though at what he shook his head he couldn’t have said – he no longer understood his thoughts, being unable to process them. He needed to regulate his mind, to regain order: he began to recite the bones within a hand, his voice a whisper. Courfeyrac didn’t comprehend the coping mechanism, but all the while didn’t protest as Combeferre left spittle on his arm, choking out names of _phalanges_ and _metacarpals_. Once he’d finished, he moved on to naming common herbs used in medical treatments of the epoch, and Courfeyrac finally understood. He let his friend reel and lurch unsteadily to his feet, turning back and nodding gratefully at Courfeyrac before continuing to advance away, wiping his brow. The centre watched him warily, ensuring his safety, and was satisfied in this when he did not leave the tavern but instead kneeled beside a man with a bleeding leg. Combeferre began to check the bandages, preparing to build on them. He finished, and moved onto the next man, attending to each wound in turn until all men had been seen to.  
                In all this, he had been silent as the grave.

                Courfeyrac, recognising that Combeferre did not desire discussion or further consolation, noted the cue to take his leave. Bending down as he passed back into the street to retrieve his hat, which had slipped from its place atop his head as he’d rushed to Combeferre’s side, he recognised Marius’ shoes loping towards him; though the death of Jean Prouvaire had shaken him – as it had shaken them all – when Courfeyrac straightened his back, he did so with a smile.  
                “Hello,” he said to Marius, who did not reply immediately, but instead fixed upon him with eyes wide and harrowing a look so staggering that it would have caused even Narcissus to glance up from the glassy pool, only to find himself peering into two more, simultaneously rife and still with sadness; neither dead nor alive, but perishing before him. It pierced his heart.  
                “Courfeyrac,” Marius said, after a long stretch of silence, drawing in a breath and speaking solemnly, almost detachedly, “I am here to die. Bahorel is already dead, and so is Jehan, and now Éponine - a girl, you don’t know her, a poor wretch - and soon I – I fear you will die, too.”  
                Courfeyrac started, yet stopping him short Marius pressed on, the pace of his speech quickening, rushing into itself as rainwater fills up the cracks and holes in the paving stones; it was clear that in Marius there had been a drought of speech, and now it was finally the monsoon: his words were streaming, and could barely be stopped. “I’ve just sent Gavroche away, he’s gone on an errand for me – to the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, not far, but away at least – I sent him there to save him, he cannot die yet. Has he even reached eleven? That said, you are twenty-five, and that is no proper age to die either – I’m twenty-one, I think, but that does not matter in my case because my fate has already been sealed and I am no longer able to carry on with life, that is that; but you, Courfeyrac, my close companion, you cannot be permitted to die – I forbid it! The cause is just and you are valiant, but I fear I must rob you of your current fate and assign for you another. If you had not opened your arms to me after I first stepped out of that fiacre, lacking both wallet and sense, I would have died before I even had a chance to live – now I have had that chance, and it is done with, it is ended, and I am grateful for it.  
                “But you – did you know, Courfeyrac, some few hours earlier I was envisioning you wearing suit-tails to match that splendid top hat of yours, with a white cravat and black waistcoat, standing beside me as chief groomsman! That would have been quite a picture, quite splendid. But I am no longer to have the chance to marry – that does not mean, however, that you must never have the chance to play groomsman. So you see, you cannot perish here; at least, not as an honourable man, as you would be a murderer! For it would be me who would die, too.”  
                Finishing abruptly, Marius released a shallow breath and ceased his eyes from darting about, settling them once more on Courfeyrac. He dropped his arms, which had been flying and gesticulating wildly during his outburst, to his sides, and suddenly was still. Courfeyrac gave him a moment’s pause, allowing the young man to gather his breath whilst he looked upon him – then, just as he had done only shortly before, he flung his arms around Marius.  
                “You’ve lost your marbles,” he sighed, resting his head on Marius’ shoulder as he spoke so that he could not see him; furtively, his eyes began to fill. “Not that you had a full set when I first met you, that is to say – though I don’t suppose our company much helped that, look at us all! We might as well be spending this break dipping into the barricade and assembling a few coffins, saving the undertaker the job. Oh, seven devils, Marius—” here, his voice split, and his smile was harder to lift “—if you would grab a musket to marry, I can stand at your side now. But, oh, forgive me – that would be, of course, to suggest that I was not already there.” Courfeyrac leaned backwards, arms still hooked around Marius’ neck; he could feel the perspiration there, dampening the lower tips of his hair. He held that position for a short while, his eyes searching  Marius’, seeking any light of understanding, but the irises he scorched with his gaze were shrouded in preoccupation. His message had not been received; he returned his arms to his sides and smiled. “Now, come – I see Feuilly over there, besides that beam. What is he doing?”  
                He was carving something indecipherable to Courfeyrac from his distance, a nail gripped tightly in his hand, its rusted edge cutting into his palm as he wrote the words painstakingly gradually, taking the utmost care on each letter: ‘Long Live the People!’

                As the moon, impassive to the extent of it being sepulchral, had watched the insurgents throughout the earliest hours of the morning, when the cobbles shiver in anticipation of footsteps and broad avenues stretch out their backs languidly in the absence of the public, permitting themselves to creak and cause sounds which startle those sleeping, Bossuet had watched it in return. He had not slept for a moment, but instead chose to mill about his comrades, dipping into conversation here and there to exchange a snippet of fact or pose a riddle, scattering light jest and lifted spirit behind him everywhere he stepped. He was merry to the point of being elfin, casting out brief skits with carbines for props and yelling selected quotes of Bolivar, or the last words of Cromwell. Around him, all felt as though the day had lightened before dawn had even struck; such was Bossuet’s inexhaustible eagerness.  
                At one point during the night, seated atop a pile of paving-stones with Joly’s lightly napping head resting upon the plane of his shoulder, he said, “Joly, pass me your musket. I would rather like to shoot that white devil from its place in the sky – it is too dim, I fancy some illumination. Before you or I know it, I'll have stumbled through the barricade, and then where will we be!”  
                Eventually, his wishes had been contracted by the heavens; the sun awoke to send away the stars, casting them off herself like one does their bed sheets when rising. The morning brought with it, however, an ominous stamp: footsteps, approaching steadily. Bossuet and Joly were still beside one another, yet no longer resting their legs, instead standing among several others inside the Corinth and polishing carbines. Their ears caught the sound of the approach simultaneously, and the men shared a glance before turning their heads to glance outside – Enjolras, too, had risen, clutching a double-barrelled carbine with his face turned to the foot of the street. Wordlessly – for it was needless for him to give orders; all men had their eyes glued to his figure, watching his actions – he took up his position. Muskets were cocked, and the subsequent silence resonated. Bossuet touched Joly’s arm gently with his hand, guiding him out of the tavern alongside himself, the pair stopping a few feet behind the barricade.  
                It was to begin. The sound of rolling artillery clicked through the silence. They spied the lighted fuse.  
                Bossuet did not withdraw his hand.  
                “Fire!” shouted Enjolras, and the street was set ablaze with the fire, smoke billowing across no man’s land and causing several of the defenders to cough. Once it had passed, not one gunner opposite them appeared to have been struck.  
                “Well done the gunners!” Bossuet called; his comrades lent them a round of applause. The enemy were seen to finish preparing the cannon, yet the defenders appeared cool-minded, spending the time of anticipation before the first volley was fired discoursing indifferently on the mechanics of artillery. They were right not to fuss – the cannon-ball, once fired, delivered to the barricade no more loss than a spot of dust that is flicked from one’s shoulder. The company fell about as one, some clapping their hands together giddily. Bossuet grinned, returning his hand to Joly’s arm tenderly as he cried to the aggressors over his shoulder, “Carry on!”

                They passed the hours in such a fashion: jovial, almost whimsical in nature, only the lack of ale in the hands of the condemned marked the day as extraordinary; it was spent quite happily, despite the occasional brick-dust tossed onto shoulders from grapeshot aimed closer than usual. Hunger amongst the comrades increased, yet spirits did not dip for some time – that is, until the next tragedy of the barricade occurred. They had lost a man of the past earlier, and, as the musket-ball fired its ultimate shot, a child of the future was felled; all generations slipped through the desperately clasping fingers of insurgency. Later, sixteen urchins clustered beneath the elephant of the Bastille and removed their threadbare caps. Two boys, one large and one small, spoke a few words accentuated with disjointed _argot_ ; the pitiful, miniature mourners murmured grave mutterings and then disbanded, three pick-pocketing separate gentlemen as they slipped away from the Place de la Bastille.

                In the Rue de la Chanvrerie, trumpets blared. Men rushed to their posts, pressing muskets to others’ chests, drawing breaths. All fell quiet as the thrumming of a distant drum beat upon their backs, resonating across the cobbles: the infantry approached, uniformed in dress and in stature.  
                Gunfire opened. The exchange of charges rang for several minutes, bodies crumpling on each side of the barricade; the stronghold held, championed by Enjolras at one end and Marius at the other. Death whirled before the heroes, whipping at their cheeks and slicing their limbs with its formidable imminence, yet they stood bold.  
                Feuilly, several weapons in hand, was yelling commands to a small group alongside him as they fired from a raised balcony, one floor up from the ground. They ducked and dodged the gunshot aimed up at them, using the higher portion of the same beam which Feuilly had earlier carved into lower down as a blockade. From the vantage point he held, Feuilly could warn his brothers below him of impending attacks – him giving these warnings prolonged the lives of no less than seven different defenders. Meanwhile, his own post was threatened – of the eight men who had stood on the platform beside him, only three remained, counting Feuilly himself. The architect moved to stand in front of them, a human shield, yet the action was in vain: they were struck down from shots fired on the opposite side. Within minutes, only Feuilly was left up on the balcony. He used two pistols to stop the attackers in their tracks, firing shots on all sides. He did not presume himself a concealed shooter, however, making no effort to hide himself – quite conversely, all the while he cried into the air:  
                “I have no mother but France! Poland, Italy, Greece! We should look to them as our guides, our apostles and prophets – see how their people rose to the call! But Paris, she who should design herself as their daughter, has left them ashamed: where is Paris? What are we to make of her; of her men who had sworn to us their faith, had given us their oaths? Where are those men? This is a conflict for the people, but the people have deserted us. Still, unrelenting, we should defend them! Protect the bedchambers in which they lie; protect the children to whom they cling amidst the furore beyond their doorsteps! _Ceci, c'est la lutte pour le peuple!_ Long live the People!”  
                As he proclaimed this final declamation louder than any he had roared before it, one arm raised in the air, a first musket-shot pierced him in the shoulder; a second tore through his heart immediately after, killing him instantly: his chest folding over, his upper body was flung dramatically over the balcony, mirroring the sunken head of the man at the window opposite him. Feuilly’s body was still, splayed gloriously; his final words rang out as his body fell over the words in writing below.  
                Joly saw this death from the street below, releasing a cry as Feuilly fell – next to him, Bossuet fought off an assailant with half of a broken sabre, tossing aside the weapon in favour of his victim’s charged musket. His forehead glittered with perspiration; his eyes glittered with persistence.  
                “Joly!” he shouted with a jerk of his head, indicating an attack on the student’s opposite side. The young medic responded fluidly, firing with a pistol at the National Guard with what could not be denied as anything less than grace; Bossuet’s eyebrows rose. “Beautiful, _mon cher,_ exquisite! How peculiar. You have been indulging in dancing lessons with our Musichetta, that much is certain.”  
                Releasing a high laugh, Joly bowed his head. “You’ve been missing out, Lesgle,” he explained, beaming. “We’ll teach you too, though, as soon as this affair is done.”  
                “Will you?”  
                Joly flinched. Bossuet’s question brought a solemn gravity to the exchange, and the pair paused a moment amidst the anarchy to share a profound look. It lasted some moments before, as though the movement pained his neck, Joly nodded. Bossuet smiled. “I look forward to it,” he started, as a pair of soldiers advanced towards them. The two defenders raised their guns, but the guards had their weapons already cocked; the axe of Fate had felled the tree before the nesting-birds could lift their wings. Comprehending what was to come, Bossuet turned his eyes to the heavens, regarding them as he had all night – this was his last opportunity to regard them, and, shifting his lofty gaze back to the young man at his side, he shook his head minutely, the corners of his lips still curved upwards, though flickering. “Upon second consideration,” he said, “I think you could teach me before she next joins us. Would that not be a pleasant surprise for her – old L’Aigle de Meaux, pirouetting _comme un ange_!”  
                Emulating the tender touch Bossuet had given him earlier; Joly rested a gentle hand upon his forearm and met his eyes through the watery glass mirror of his own. His high chuckle was softer this time.  
                “Most certainly,” he smiled. “She will be proud.”  
                The reports erupted twice, and, some streets away, trembling hand pressed desperately to a misted window, a young woman’s heart was twice pierced.  
               

                Courfeyrac was holding a position closer to the Corinth, and had not noticed the deaths of his friends. At some point he had lost the hat which Marius had praised as splendid; he had not a moment to retrieve it as, one after the other, Municipal Guards rushed towards him. In turn, all were struck down – many other defenders had come to his aid during the thickest minutes of the fighting. Now, however, as a soldier limped towards him, he stood alone.  
                The pair’s shared resemblance was striking – they might well have been brothers. The guard held a bayonet where Courfeyrac brandished his sword-stick, each holding his ground. Marius, standing upon the barricade and disabling a climbing guard with the butt of a musket, glanced about the scene behind him: his eyes fell briefly upon Courfeyrac, who was beaming as though he had just bore witness to a fantastic spectacle. His confrontation with the guard resembled a fencing spar, the hatless defender dragging out the attack, making his small jabs sprightly and gaily – he noticed Marius watching and caught his glance, acknowledging him with a twinkle in his eye; beyond the glimmer, however, Marius perceived something deeper, a falsehood covering despair. A sickening wave of anxiousness flooded over Marius as he looked on, sheer seconds stretching into a lifetime, and saw Courfeyrac suddenly thrust his sword with force towards the guard—but the guard struck him first, his bayonet sliding into Courfeyrac’s chest cleanly; the guard drew it back out sharply and moved on as the insurgent swayed on the spot.  
                Yet even as the icy throes of death gripped him, freezing first his fingertips, then spreading its chill along his arms, and across his feet and up his legs, and leaking down from his skull, Courfeyrac emanated warmth; without a trace of bitterness, as noble as was imaginable, he lifted his head and laughed, simultaneously dropping to his knees as he lost all power in his legs. The ruby stain left behind by the bayonet had spread, soaking his chest with the colour of passion, of animosity, of love. Before his eyes rolled upwards, Courfeyrac caught the eyes of Marius once more: Marius’ mouth was wide open, he was screaming, but Courfeyrac could not hear a sound. His eyelids fluttered.  
                His heart was the last piece of him to fall victim to the cold.  
                Marius was hoarse: he had first lost Cosette, and now Courfeyrac; he did not mourn the loss of his voice, for he no longer had need to speak. There were no further words to be said.  
                A shower of gunshot nicked his right ear, nearly laying him low – Marius turned back to face the advance beyond barricade with quiet determination, firing his shots from the position as indomitably as before, yet moving thrice as languidly now, almost sluggish; as though he did not wish to protect himself.  
                 
                 Combeferre, shooting steadily at the street from a small gap in the barricade, perceived Marius’ recklessness as one particularly close shot caused the lover to sway on the spot, almost losing his foothold.  
                “Watch, Marius!” Combeferre said, his voice sharp. He did not intend to sound curt, reserving his attacks for the assailant, yet he was undeniably irked at the young man’s wildness: it was as though he was hastening towards death, dancing sprightly towards its outstretched talons. Combeferre could not stomach it. He had not ceased counting the sounds of bodies thudding against paving-stones since the death of Jean Prouvaire, whose face still lingered in his imagination; a conjured image of the valiant martyr standing defiant, perhaps not even letting his eyelids rest as the bullets flew, his lips and cheeks burning with impassioned valour and his arms reaching up to the heavens above. Since then, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, some of the other men whom he had studied with, Courfeyrac—all had perished upon the cobbled stones. Combeferre longed to tear one from the earth with his bare hands, to raise it above his head and beg the people why they came and went, yet the stones remained; omnipotent, the watching eyes of the world, the stage for every insurgence, yet far from benevolent – dirtying the feet of those impoverished who lacked anywhere else to stagger, observing misery and staying silent, permitting to pool within their cracks the blood of the innocents who fought from the boundaries of a crude frontier which divided them: just as the men who kneeled upon them to shoot a musket, hands shaking with trepidation, and the men who keeled onto them having been shot, hands no longer able to produce a single quiver, the stones were split into halves and forced to betray the other. Those closest to the dividing line were the coldest, chilled by the jagged shadows which the barricade thrust upon them. Grass fields have no say in their allegiance during battle. Time and time again we reclaim them, driving in our crest and staking the land as our spoils, yet they cannot protest. All they may do is shiver.  
                Behind him, a gasped cry seized Combeferre – spinning to face its source, he watched a young soldier drop to his knees, pierced in the abdomen by a bullet. He was on his feet instantly, ducking to avoid a spray of grapeshot which soared above his head as he moved to the fallen man’s side. “Soldier!” he shouted, immediately checking the man was still responsive – his eyebrows twitched and he released another sharp gasp. Soaked red with blood, his lower torso was badly wounded, yet he could perhaps survive if Combeferre moved him into the Corinth quickly enough. The student hooked his arms beneath the soldier’s shoulders, shifting to raise him up slightly – this prompted a whimper from the unknown man. “I’m sorry,” Combeferre apologised, his own face contorted with pain, too. “You will survive, comrade. I will ensure it.” He moved to lift the man again, murmuring under his breath, “No more death. No more—”  
                His sentence was cut short as a bayonet stabbed his chest. His grasp of the wounded soldier slipped, and the man dropped to the paving stones lifeless. He was stabbed again, this second thrust of the bayonet piercing his stomach. He turned his eyes to the sky. Clouds blanketed the heavens above, almost preventing him from seeing them, yet, albeit faintly, through their grey veil Combeferre could distinguish the outline of the sun: it was ablaze.


End file.
